Dangerous Mould
by Benfan
Summary: What mould in the world can scare Sherlock Holmes? This is death coming in petri-dishes! Will John be able to save a poisoned Sherlock? Injured!Sherlock, Doctor!John (also slightly injured). No slash, lots of h/c! This is part I and can be read alone, so I put status complete, however, the story isn't over. Will be continued under Dangerous Mould Part II! Cover by Rephis!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my first fanfiction ever! It is dedicated to my wonderful beta-reader who encouraged me to turn from reader into writer and who helped me to make this text a proper English text! English is not my mother-tongue and this is my first published story ever, so, please, be kind. Hope you enjoy it and more coming soon!

John was annoyed. Once again Sherlock had left him to do the grocery shopping. He _had _promised**,** though**,** to go and get some milk and bread since both had been subjected to some of Sherlock's unfathomable experiments.

John wondered if he was trying to grow _Penicillium_ or something. Sherlock had just recently been quite sick and had almost caught pneumonia. John finally had to force him into taking antibiotics, which had just been commented by Sherlock with a flippant: "Dull." In a way, though, Sherlock had somehow been intrigued by John's sermon on the importance and the luck of having antibiotics. John wondered why, because Sherlock had a profound knowledge about antibiotics and the biochemistry behind them. Anyway, since then the milk and bread had disappeared curiously enough, although neither John nor Sherlock ate and drank much of them. Instead, the kitchen table was plastered with petri dishes growing colourful mould. They were nice to look at in a way, however, eating at that same table was impossible at the moment.

As John hadn't expected anything else but Sherlock forgetting about the shopping, he went to Tesco's himself one day when he really needed some hot tea _with_ milk. However, after another quarrel with the automatic check-out, John felt a slight anger rumbling in his gut. On his way home he had bumped into another pedestrian who had insulted him very unpleasantly. One of the milk cartons had fallen to the ground and split, the milk splattering John's trousers. In John's perception the other person had almost tackled him deliberately, but when he had finally collected himself to question the man, he had already run off.

So, when John got home, the anger in his gut had become very dominant and he felt like going into a rant against Sherlock, which would help to make him feel better.

John entered the flat, expecting to see Sherlock stretched out on the couch thinking or just pretending to be doing so. Before John had left for the shopping**,** Sherlock had been on the sofa and had shown barely any reaction to John's moaning about the missing milk. "Need to think", had been the only thing he had mumbled more or less to himself. John scanned the living-room but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Sherlock? Back from shopping!"

No reply. John sighed and went to the kitchen to store the shopping. He jumped a little when he saw Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table staring at the petri-dishes without actually seeing them.

"Need any milk for your experiments?" he teased Sherlock. He waited for a reaction, but none came.

"Sherlock! Saying hello has nothing to do with sentiment, so even you could condescend to do so!" John was really getting angry now. This hadn't been the best of days so far and the powder keg in John only needed a little spark to set it off.

He put down the shopping bag on the counter slightly more violently than would have been necessary**,** risking another split carton of milk. Turning around he shouted: "Sherlock! I am really, really pissed off…."

His voice trailed off when he noticed the expression on Sherlock's face. Was that … fear? No, impossible. There was nothing that could really worry the Consulting Detective. Due to his analytical mind and his denial of emotions in general there was nothing that John could think of that would scare Sherlock Holmes. Still, there was something in his expression that John had never seen before.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

The addressed person finally looked at John, having slipped on his usual mask of indifference again.

"Nothing", was his brisk reply. He suddenly pushed the chair back, stood up and left the kitchen.

"Don't you _dare _touch my petri-dishes!" he yelled, with a sudden change of emotion, then crossed the living-room and a second later John heard the door to Sherlock's room being slammed.

The shorter of the flatmates stood at the kitchen counter, flabbergasted. Over the time John had become used to Sherlock's changing moods, but this was strange. The exclamation about not touching the experiments had almost sounded panic-stricken. Also, Sherlock knew John wouldn't mess around with his flatmate's more or less scientific stuff. John's glance fell on the kitchen table. The petri dishes had been rearranged, most of them piled into towers. However, one of them was placed right in front of where Sherlock had just been sitting. Was that probably the cause of Sherlock's strange behaviour?

John walked around the table and examined the item closely, leaning over the kitchen table and yet refraining from touching it. There was mould growing in shades of orange and yellow in a couple of colonies. John didn't know what species it could be. He shrugged. He would have to ask Sherlock what, if anything at all, made this container so special that it hadn't been piled like the others and hadpossibly caused a pretty peculiar reaction from its owner.

Before turning away**,** John threw a last quick glance at the petri dish – and froze: the pattern of the colonies looked like a death's head. He hadn't seen it when looking at it from little distance. Maybe he only imagined it, but going by Sherlock's odd behaviour he had seen it, too, and it had scared him!


	2. Chapter 2

It's so exciting that actually people_ read_ what I have written! *smile*

Many thanks again to my beta-reader, the midwife and godmother of my story, as I call her!

Thanks to all the follows and favs!

I was really, really happy about the reviews! Many thanks for them!

[Feels like an acceptance speech at the Oscar's :-)]

So, here's the second chapter! Enjoy!

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Chapter 2

Medical training had involved a good deal of microbiology, including practical exercises. John remembered that there were pretty nasty species of mould, some of them causing minor to major health problems, some even really dangerous, but it was quite unlikely that one could grow these accidentally with just bread and milk. If it were possible, the Environment Agency would have had a hard time of it, because traces of them would have to be in the food already. Plus, John knew that as long as the petri-dishes were sealed or at least not opened, there was little to no risk in handling them. The doctor examined the suspicious object once again. It wasn't sealed, just like the others weren't. Therefore, Sherlock wouldn't have expected to grow anything possibly hazardous. As much as the Consulting Detective despised many safety precautions as dull, boring, unnecessary and what not, he was usually careful when it came to his experiments – despite the fact that he didn't see any problem in storing severed parts of the human body in the same fridge as milk and vegetables.

John also doubted that Sherlock would have developed a strange kind of humour recently, inoculating the culture mediums in morbid pictures. So this petri-dish probably wasn't one of his companion's.

John wondered where it could have come from when and a vision of Moriarty's vicious smile crossed his mind. That creep had been playing games with Sherlock that, at some point, the Consulting Detective hadn't wanted to play anymore. People's lives had been at stake or even taken. This might possibly be another of the Consulting Criminal's twisted "pleasures". The doctor's hair stood on end and he wished that, if this had anything to do with Moriarty, it would just be a threat and nothing really dangerous.

John had to interrogate his flatmate immediately if there was anything wrong with Sherlock's latest experiments and with the stubborn man himself.

John hurried to Sherlock's room and knocked at the door, all his anger suddenly gone and replaced by worry.

"Sherlock?"

There was no answer from the inside.

"Sherlock, I'm coming in."

They had a silent agreement that the doors to their rooms wouldn't be locked. They would not enter the other one's room without permission, though. Since there still wasn't any reply, John pressed the door handle and opened the door slowly. He peered into the other man's room and expected to be yelled at or to be thrown out, but he only saw Sherlock curled up on his bed, not showing any reaction at all. He had his back turned to the door, so that John couldn't see his face. Sherlock seemed to be asleep and John knew that he could actually fall asleep very fast when done with an exhausting case, but there hadn't been any in the last couple of days, and his flatmate going to sleep in bright daylight was very peculiar.

"Hey, mate, you ok?"

John went over to the other side of the bed.

"Sherlock, what's wrong with you? Answer me!"

The older man shook the younger's shoulders. There was just a little moan coming from the Consulting Detective. If he had been asleep he would have woken up by his flatmate's quite strong shakes. The man on the bed seemed to be just semi-conscious, despite not being completely limp. John put his fingers to Sherlock's carotid artery and took the pulse. It was steady, yet really fast. Something _was_ wrong!

The doctor rolled his flatmate on the back and that very moment the tall man started to tremble violently. John was startled, but reacted instinctively. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialled the number that he had always dreaded being forced to use. He had strict orders not to call an ambulance, if anything happened to Sherlock, since there had apparently been something in Sherlock's past that could not be taken care of in a regular hospital. John felt it had to do with his flatmate's former drug abuse, but he had never been given details. Instead, Mycroft had given John this number and instructed him to use it in case of an emergency of any kind that Sherlock was involved in.

The call was taken instantly with a meagre "Yes, John?"

"Mycroft, I need an emergency team, a toxicologist and microbiologist and whatever you have for possible bio-hazards over here immediately. There is something wrong with Sherlock. At the moment he's having a kind of seizure! Hurry up!"

Actually, John was panicking. He didn't wait for any reply, threw his phone on the nightstand and knelt on the bed. He could be sure that Mycroft would send a whole army in just a second if necessary.

John felt something creeping up his spine, something nasty and nagging and he was sure his face displayed the same expression as Sherlock's had a couple of minutes before – fear. He knew that in just a few seconds his adrenaline level would rise up to a range where fortunately he would only just be functioning and not thinking or feeling very much anymore, his parasympathetic system more or less being shut down. He took Sherlock's cushions and covered the hard edges of the nightstand with it so that his friend could not hurt his head in his seizure. The doctor tried to get hold of Sherlock's right arm and leg and when he finally managed to do so, he rolled him into a stable side position. This was just in time, because the shaking man started vomiting. John jumped from the bed without letting go of Sherlock, keeping him in position. Once again John felt his flatmate's pulse. It was far too fast and far too flat.

"No, no, no, no, Sherlock! What the hell are you doing here?! Come on, mate, calm down!"

In fact, John wasn't sure who he actually addressed with the last words, they could as well have been meant for himself. Due to his patient's violent tremor he couldn't do very much but just make sure Sherlock wouldn't fall from his bed or hurt himself otherwise.

And all of a sudden the seizure was over and Sherlock became limp.

John quickly checked his vital signs and found that the pulse had gone to the other extreme – too slow and still too flat.

The doctor thought it was safe for the moment to roll Sherlock back in order to get him out of the vomit that was soaking his bedding. He managed to roll it out from under the limp person and dumped it on the floor.

He scrutinized the younger man and was terrified by his complexion. The usual paleness had even been replaced by an unhealthy shade of grey – a deadly shade of grey; but upon checking once again on Sherlock John couldn't find a change either for the better or for the worse. The doctor, however, knew that this very slow heartbeat could easily result in cardiac arrest if it got worse. He wished that Mycroft's men would arrive very soon.

"What's wrong with you, huh? Tell me, because I can't deduce it!"

John knew he was speaking to himself, because there was no answer to be expected from an unconscious man; therefore his heart skipped a beat when he heard his best make a sound: "T…-t…" he obviously tried to say something but couldn't get the word out. He inhaled and tried again:

"Fish… smell…" was what Sherlock more or less hissed, his speech slightly above a whisper, very slurred and almost unintelligible, his eyes remaining shut.

"What are you trying to say?"

John leaned in as close to Sherlock's mouth as possible and hoped the spoken words would make some sense to him, but his friend didn't say anything more.

"Sherlock, listen! Has your current condition anything to do with the petri-dish on the kitchen table? If yes, just try to nod or tap my hand."

John slid his hand under Sherlock's in case he wouldn't be able to nod and felt the faintest tap on his skin.

"Is it life-threatening?"

Another tap, not very much more than a tiny movement.

"Can you tell me what it is? Sherlock!"

Something that sounded like "Wha…" was the only thing John could understand before Sherlock went completely limp again.

Sherlock's words didn't make any sense to John. Fish, Smell, and the other fragments didn't give him a clue about the content of the petri-dish. John didn't know how much time had passed since he had made the emergency call to Mycroft. It felt like hours, although it could only be minutes. He knew that even Mycroft needed some time. Again John checked Sherlock's vital signs and sent a quick prayer to heaven that help would come soon. He was very worried about the bradycardia and his flatmate showed signs that the doctor couldn't find an explanation for. His skin was shining with sweat and, oddly enough, Sherlock was drooling. It could have been funny if the situation in general hadn't been so serious. However, after a brief moment, there was so much saliva that John rolled his friend back into the safe position on his right side to make sure he didn't choke on it. John hadn't seen this before in his medical career.

"Damn, Sherlock, either your mould has mutated into something very evil, or somebody very evil has his hands in this!" The doctor fought against the adrenaline which blocked his brain. He had to think!

What Sherlock had told him didn't make any sense, yet there had to be some! T… and wha…, fish and smell. Something smelled of fish, most likely the contents of the suspicious petri-dish. The doctor wished he had Sherlock's ability to retreat into a mind palace to search for information, to visualize things to himself in order to find a missing piece to a puzzle, in this case the missing letters to two words.

Suddenly Sherlock made a gurgling sound, which John had heard too many times before. It was the sound of death, of the last breath drawn.


	3. Chapter 3

Here we go - the next Chapter!

It is quite short, I know, but the next chapter's coming soon.

Thanks again for favs, follows and particularly for the reviews! I am flattered!

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Chapter 3

"Shit, shit, shit," was all that John could say and think of.

He quickly pulled Sherlock from the bed, ignoring the fact that the tall man hit the floor quite hard. The doctor needed something flat and firm for his flatmate to lie on. Knowing that nothing else would help anymore, John took a deep breath and blew it into his friend's mouth – one, two – then started pressing his thorax almost violently – one, two, three…. Strangely enough John had to think of something that he had been taught at Barts: Sing "Staying alive…" and you have the appropriate speed for resuscitation. It was really ridiculous to be reminded of that while trying to save your flatmate and best friend's life!

"Don't you dare to just die under my hands, you bloody prat!" John barked.

John went on, the annoying melody of the BeeGees song in his subconscious,… give respiration: one, two… press: one, two, three, four….twenty-nine, thirty… He was soaked with sweat and exhausted, but John wouldn't let go of Sherlock. After a time that felt endless, Sherlock took a flat breath and the doctor sank back, now sitting on his lower legs and looking at the tall man.

"You scared me to death!" he scolded.

Although in the back of his brain John knew that giggling now was completely inappropriate, his relief tried to find an outlet.

After a brief moment of letting his emotions take control of him, his doctor mode kicked in again and he checked Sherlock's vital signs. The heartbeat was still very slow, the breathing flat, but at least he was alive! John knew that what had just happened was very likely to happen again if the bradycardia wouldn't go away.

John let his fingers at Sherlock's pulse, just in case of any change and tried to think. Wha… - like what, water, was, war, want,… and many other words. Far too many! Smell and fish made sense in a way, if Sherlock had indeed meant that the contents of the container smelled of fish, but even of that John wasn't sure.

"Fish, fish, fish, fish…. John, THINK!"

Somehow the doctor had a faint feeling that in the farthest part of his mind he did have an idea, and that a bell had already started ringing there. It was something, however, that he knew from a completely different context, another life, he felt.

All of a sudden, Sherlock went into convulsions again. It only lasted seconds and then he was motionless. John had lost the carotid artery and when he found it again the pulse he felt was extremely weak and suddenly gone.

"No, SHERLOCK!" he yelled, starting resuscitation once again, yet knowing that this time it needed a miracle to be successful. The doctor's eyes swam and a teardrop made its way down on Sherlock's chest. The crying man blew air into his friend's mouth, pressed and blew and pressed and blew, not knowing if there was any chance of bringing Sherlock back to life.

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A/N: I am not kidding about singing "Staying alive" for resuscitation, I've just seen it on TV. I found it very macabre that Moriarty's ringtone could actually help to bring Sherlock back to life.


	4. Chapter 4

Here's the next chapter! It is so much fun to write this story, to read your reviews, to see that people follow and even favourite. THANKS!

I apologize for any mistakes concerning medical treatment. I do have proper knowledge of biology, but that doesn't qualify me as a doctor :-)

Enjoy and, please, review!

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Chapter 4

John felt a tight grip on his shoulder. Only then did he notice that Mycroft's men and Mycroft himself had entered the flat already.

"John, back! Defibrillation!"

The addressed individual was drawn away from the limp body forcefully and sat down hard on his bottom. One of the men already had the device ready, another one ripped Sherlock's shirt apart and quickly placed the electrodes on his body.

"Back!"

This was a nightmare that John wished he would wake up from instantly. He saw Sherlock's chest rise from the electric shock, but there was no sound coming from the heart monitor of the defibrillator. John felt completely numb when he watched the medical team give it another try – nothing.

John felt something cold spreading in his guts, which could only be described as sheer terror! He was aware of the fact that more than three times of defibrillation didn't make sense. The likelihood of being successful went close to zero.

So he sent another silent prayer to heaven: Please, God, let him live! John wasn't a religious man, but it had worked for him once, as simple as it was.

And there it was, after the third time– the relieving beep…beep…beep…!

John released a breath he hadn't known he had been holding and let his tears stream down his cheeks.

Mycroft approached his brother's flatmate, having watched the scene emotionlessly, or so it seemed.

"John, we need to talk, I beg you to pull yourself together! Explain what is going on here!"

The doctor threw a blurred glance over his shoulder and saw that the flat was crowded with people in white and blue overalls carrying a lot of equipment, waiting for his report. As fast and steady as his voice and state of mind allowed, yet not averting his gaze from his friend and the medical team who were intubating him and fixing an IV cannula on the back of his hand, John gave a description of the incident.

Mycroft ordered his men to examine the suspicious petri-dish and to search the flat for anything that could give them a clue as to Sherlock's state. The tall man turned to John again.

"And you? Are you ok?" He frowned.

John gave a nod, despite feeling slightly nauseous and dizzy, which could definitely be explained by his exhaustion. He tried to concentrate on the thought processes he had had before the Consulting Detective's second cardiac arrest.

"Sir", said one of the medical team with an urgent undertone, "we don't know how long we can keep up his vital functions without knowing what the cause of these reactions is. We will most likely not be able to resuscitate him one more time."

John dimly noticed that Mycroft was talking to the man in quite an unfriendly tone. Apparently, this was his way of showing sorrow. The doctor knew that Mycroft did care about his brother, otherwise he wouldn't have been given the emergency number.

John himself tried to clear the cotton wool that was his brain. Fish, wha…, fish, wha…

He distantly perceived that the kitchen had been sealed with curtains of plastic film, blurring the shapes of the persons moving behind them. From what the former soldier could see they were wearing gas masks. John was reminded of the other life he had once led. Mainly during his military training he had been forced to wear those masks, always finding it hard to work with them properly.

"Dr. Watson!"

John jumped at the sound of his title and last name being called by Mycroft. The stiffest person the former soldier had ever known had condescended to calling him by his first name some time ago. John assumed that he had been called a couple of times before and simply hadn't noticed.

"John, have you got the slightest idea what Sherlock could have meant by the words he said?"

"No," he hesitated, "… but there is something that I can't grasp."

"Then, please, do your best and THINK!" Mycroft had rid himself of his usual arrogance for just one second, his face then displaying deep concern. So, John had been right about the caring issue.

"Sir, there is a brownish liquid covering the surface of the culture medium. It doesn't seem to be a mycotoxine though. Seems as if it had been added after the breeding of the cultures. We cannot identify it at the moment."

One of the men in a blue overall had approached Mycroft and had taken down the gas mask.

"Hurry up then and do identify it!" was Mycroft's brisk though slightly croaky reply. He had managed again to hide his emotions almost perfectly, only his slightly croaky voice and a light tapping of the fingers of his right hand to his thigh revealed his agitation.

The bell in John's subconscious rang louder. A brownish liquid, fish smell and wha…, wha… - WAR! Suddenly everything shifted into place, all the pieces fitting together.

"Mycroft! Mycroft! Listen! Tabun! It's Tabun! The smell of fish, a brownish liquid, and WAR, that was the word, it wasn't a fragment, and the 't'! Tabun is a nerve agent, a chemical weapon! Sherlock knew what he had been exposed to! He needs atropine! Immediately!"

"Are you sure, John? You know, if you're wrong, administration of atropine will definitely kill Sherlock!"

"I am sure! Excessive salivation and sweating, bradycardia, convulsions, nausea – all these symptoms fit overexposure to Tabun! Give him atropine! NOW! I don't know how much time has already passed since the exposure, but we're running out of it! GIVE HIM ATROPINE! Tabun blocks the acetycholinesterase so that re-uptake of acetylcholin into the synapse is prevented. If you don't give him atropine within half an hour after exposure nothing in the world will save your brother!"

Suddenly John was extremely nauseous and only just managed to look away from Mycroft when he started vomiting violently. He vaguely noticed somebody catching him when he passed out.


	5. Chapter 5

Ok, here's another one.

Actually, the story has developed a life of its own, which I hadn't foreseen and complicates writing a bit. So, I am not sure if I can update as regularly as I have so far. I promise, though, that at least the next chapter won't take too long.

Oh, and sorry for another kind of cliffhanger - this one isn't as bad as the other ones, I promise. :-))

Once again many, many thanks to my dear reviewers. Your messages are so very encouraging!

I am also very happy about all the follows and favs! Love you!

I have to blame my beta for a little misery, that is not being able to finish the story. It is a welcome misery, though, because she had the most brilliant ideas to continue this story! Originally, I hadn't intended to do so, but writing is so much fun , so I have changed my mind.

Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

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Chapter 5

A rhythm of beeps was the first thing John perceived semi-consciously. There were two different beeps playing a strange but soothing melody, one faster, one slower. They were accompanied by muffled background sounds.

John tried to fight himself back into consciousness, because he felt that there was some important reason to be conscious. What was it? He simply couldn't remember.

After some time the sounds became clearer and John noticed they were voices, quite a few of them. Nevertheless, he couldn't figure out who they belonged to. There was a throbbing pain in his head and he felt nauseous.

Suddenly he remembered and it sent a flash through his body: Sherlock!

He had been poisoned with a nerve agent! Its production was generally dangerous and needed special laboratories. How the hell did Sherlock get into contact with a nerve agent? Oh, …the petri-dish!

John struggled into consciousness and felt an IV attached to his hand as well as electrodes fixed on his chest. So, one of the beeping sounds was recording his own heartbeat. Why did he have an IV and a heart monitor attached to him? He took a deep breath and noticed that he was also wearing a breathing mask. He had apparently blacked out, but why did he need all the medical equipment?

The other beeps – were they Sherlock's? John hoped that they wouldn't belong to somebody else having passed out.

"Dr Watson? Can you hear me?" A distant voice called him.

"Hmm..." was all John could utter. He forced his eyes open and found himself in a kind of Sci-Fi-nightmare. The creature above him was wearing a mask, as did all creatures in his vision. No, this wasn't science fiction, this was war – and John was right in the middle of it! Slightly panicking, he tried to look around without moving his aching head too much. Above him they had erected a kind of canopy. John wondered why his vision still seemed to be blurred. He blinked his eyes a couple of times, but noticed then that it wasn't his vision but the room itself that was foggy.

John tried to get sight of Sherlock. He needed to know if Sherlock was alive! He flinched when he tried to support himself on his lower arms. He felt terrible, but his sorrow made him move.

"Sir, it's safe now."

One of the men in full cover nodded slightly and took off the gas mask. It was Mycroft. The mask was by far the strangest thing John had ever seen on the man. The fog in the rooms was settling slowly and the ex-army man figured that they had sprayed Soda to oxidize the nerve agent. As vicious as Tabun was, it was relatively easy to make it inactive.

John slowly turned his head around and saw Sherlock still lying in the same place John had dragged him for resuscitation. He had the same apparatus attached to him as John. He was still incredulously pale, but the beeps were definitely coming from his heart monitor. John sighed with relief and shifted his weight onto one arm, freeing a hand to get rid of the breathing mask. Hewanted to talk to Mycroft and find out more about his flatmate's condition.

"Mycroft." The doctor's voice was still weak, but the addressed mancame up to him and –to John's surprise – crouched down next to him.

"John, welcome back."

"What's all this?" With the breathing mask John pointed down at the cables fixed on his chest.

"You had been exposed to the Tabun, too, although apparently much less than my brother. You were also given a dose of atropine. I do have to thank you for your fast reaction in calling me instantly and in diagnosing what harm had been done to my brother. We do not yet know whether Sherlock will recover, however, every second until the administration of atropine counted. I am very grateful."

This was more than John had ever thought Mycroft would be capable of. He gave the older man a slight smirk to show his appreciation.

"How's he doing?" he managed to ask.

"We can do nothing more to save him apart from trying to keep his breathing and circulation steady. The atropine has worked, yet my brother will go through a good deal of pain and discomfort."

John knew that this had been pure understatement. Further medical treatment that would make the Acetylcholinesterase work again would be necessary. So far only the post-synaptic depolarisation had been interrupted. Sherlock wasn't safe, but at least alive, and the more time passed the better was his chance of survival.

"How long since I called you?"

"One and a half hours."

"Well, that's a good sign, isn't it? Sherlock is still alive after this time. "

"Yes, indeed. We will take the two of you to a clinic now. We think it is safe to transport Sherlock. The team will clean your flat during your recovery."

John nodded and threw a worried glance at Sherlock. Usually Tabun killed within two hours after exposure. However, depending on the dose, it might take longer. But after the three cardiac arrests that Sherlock had survived and the administration of atropine, the ex-army doctor was convinced that Mycroft's men had arrived just in time to save the Consulting detective.

Both John and Sherlock were lifted onto a stretcher and taken to a van. The car didn't look like an ambulance, though, and the medical equipment inside did not resemble that provided in a normal ambulance. It looked like an intensive care unit with everything you could think of. There were three places for stretchers on the sides. John and Sherlock were put in view of each other. The doctor felt safe and felt that Sherlock would be safe too. So, he closed his eyes and let himself drift into a welcome unconsciousness again.


	6. Chapter 6

Here we go!

This has been the hardest chapter for me, since I have changed it over and over again.

I am very grateful for the encouraging reviews and PMs! They helped me a lot.

librarianmum, you are the greatest! So very patient with me! THANK YOU!

This chapter is mainly John-centred. Next one's in progress.

Enjoy and please review!

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Chapter 6

When John regained consciousness once more, he still had a terrible headache- the aftermath of the nerve agent. He hadn't even touched the petri-dish with the hazardous liquid, but he was aware that contamination could even occur through the eyes and that Tabun was extremely toxic in very small amounts. However, John was sure that the dose he had got wouldn't have been lethal. In his still semi-conscious state**,** the picture of Sherlock lying on the floor motionlessly crossed his mind and John felt a nagging sorrow that he wasn't sure at all about the dose his friend had been exposed to.

While struggling into full consciousness, John again heard beeps in two slightly different tones, but this time the pace wasn't as distinct as it had been the last time he had heard them after Sherlock's last resuscitation and his own collapse. With fluttering eyelids, John finally managed to open his eyes and was greeted by dazzling white. John flinched, the bright lights stabbing his eyes painfully.

Immediately, the light in the room was dimmed. John turned his head and saw a man dressed in white alongside Mycroft, who was looking at him. Behind the two there was another bed, and there was Sherlock, still motionless, lying bare-chested and attached to a lot of tubes and cables. John couldn't see his flatmate's face, however, he recognised him by his distinctive profile. The two men were standing in front of the upper part of his bed and blocking his view.

"Good morning, John, we sensed the light might be slightly uncomfortable. We hope this is better for you," Mycroft said with the faintest hint of a smirk.

"Morning?" John's voice was slightly croaky and he tried to clear it. "You sure 'bout 'morning'?"

"Oh, yes, you were unconscious for quite a while. But don't worry, you will be fine."

John blinked his eyes – he hadn't realised that he'd been out cold for so long.

"How's _he_ doing?" John lifted his head as much as the pain in it allowed him toand pointed in Sherlock's direction.

"Thanks to your diagnosis, Dr Watson, he has survived. He has not regained consciousness, yet, and he is still in danger of seizures. His vital signs, however, are stable for the time being, but we'll only know if he's over the worst when he wakes up. Plus, … he has got a few broken ribs due to the CPM you carried out on him," the man next to Mycroft informed John.

"I see," John said weakly, relieved that at least Sherlock was still alive and not in immediate danger any more. He didn't have to feel guilty about the broken ribs, which could hardly have been avoided under such circumstances.

Mycroft pierced John with his gaze, then, raising an eyebrow, said, "I was right, wasn't I?"

"Right? About what?"

"You _did _miss the war. You did very well under these highly stressful circumstances – with the most pleasant outcome that my brother is alive. This little war that you have just gone through has been proof enough."

John found Mycroft's smile slightly creepy and suddenly felt uneasy. He didn't want to hear Mycroft's theory, although he had to admit to himself that there _had_ to be at least a little truth in it. The exhausted man let his head fall onto the cushion again without commenting on what Mycroft had just stated as a matter of fact. Why couldn't that git just let him be? And yet, his war experiences, his instinctive acting under stress and his specific knowledge about chemical weapons _had_ saved his friend's life.

John changed the subject.

"Where are we?"

"You are in, let's say, a private clinic under the best treatment _and_ surveillance that you can imagine."

"Surveillance?" John asked disbelievingly.

"You have just survived a nerve gas attack! What do you expect?"

John realized that, again, Mycroft was indeed correct, so he weakly responded with a grumbled "Yeah." Mycroft's ability to see through people and to state obvious, yet unpleasant facts was almost as good as Sherlock's.

Despite Mycroft's annoying coldness and disdain, John was convinced that he had spoken nothing but the truth at their second meeting**,** after John had saved Sherlock's life for the first time. He _was_ concerned. To be fair, he _did_ state it on a regular basis; however, since he didn't show it emotionally, it was hardly believable. Apparently, his way of showing his concern was to provide everything that was necessary to save his brother's life; and this time John was really glad that Mycroft did occupy a "minor" position in the British government, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to save Sherlock and maybe also himself.

"We will let you rest now, John, but I do have questions! I will get back on you later. Dr Smith, here, will take care of you and my brother. If there is anything that you need, let him know. I have to excuse myself, since I am currently occupied with most urgent matters. Get better, John." Mycroft bade him good-bye and left.

Dr Smith patted John's shoulder, threw a last glance at Sherlock, and followed Mycroft.

Rooms tended to become too small when Mycroft was in them, his presence filling every cubic centimetre; therefore, John was relieved that he was on his own, finally being able to get a full look of Sherlock.

He was still as white as the sheets, but despite the ordeal that he had gone through, his face looked quite peaceful. At least, John thought, he isn't in pain. He felt the urge to talk to his roommate, but didn't really know what to say. So, he simply stated what was troubling him most.

"Sherlock, do me a favour, will you? – NEVER EVER … SCARE ME… TO DEATH AGAIN! Did you get that?!"

John was surprised that he had actually yelled at Sherlock. And yet, the regular beeping was the only reply he got.

John felt his throat become narrow and had to fight back tears. What was the matter with him? He'd been such a wet blanket lately! That was - annoying! He had to admit, though, that he had really been terrified by the thought of possibly losing Sherlock. Plus, the _really_ horrifying thing, which made his hair stand on end, was that the person who had tried to kill Sherlock once, would probably and very likely try it again.

Another thought suddenly crossed John's mind: was it possible that he himself had even been the target? John reckoned that, as opposed to Sherlock, he simply didn't have enemies other than probably Moriarty, who considered John Sherlock's pet. Killing somebody's pet would very likely hurt its master, so maybe that had been the intended outcome. If the Consulting Criminal had been the source of the poisonous petri-dish, even the most outlandish ideas had to be taken into account, since that man was a vicious and dangerous lunatic!

However, John had a distinct feeling that, most likely, he himself hadn't been the target of this attack, because usually he wouldn't touch Sherlock's experiments.

John sighed and contemplated what had happened: Sherlock's behaviour when John had got home from the grocery shopping had been very strange. He was sure that if Sherlock hadn't been under the influence of the toxic substance, he would have been able to tell him instantly what the petri-dish had contained. He was sure that under these circumstances Sherlock wouldn't have wanted to play games with him. He _knew_ that John simply didn't have the Consulting Detective's ability to deduce things. John had sensed from the words Sherlock had uttered, though, that his flatmate still had to have been aware that the ex-army doctor would have specific knowledge about nerve gases. After all, he was also sure that Sherlock hadn't simply retreated to his bedroom to die a lonely death, so why had he run off? Had he simply been out of his mind? Probably he hadn't been aware of the fact that Tabun worked so quickly.

Yet, the crucial questions remained how the petri-dish had found its way into their flat and, of course, how the nerve-agent had got into the respective petri-dish. John was drained. Despite having taken all the available and obvious facts into consideration, there were still so many open questions, but John couldn't deduce the answers – he just wasn't Sherlock Holmes!


	7. Chapter 7

Once more thanks to your reviews, favs and follows!

I am quite busy at the moment, so I've decided to leave you with a tiny little cliffhanger to prevent you from having to wait for too long for all the questions raised to be anwered. The next chapter's ready and will be posted soon (it's the one I love most).

I am working on the follow-up, but it'll need some time.

librarianmum, you are my hero!

Reviews are very welcome.

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Chapter 7

John was interrupted in his thoughts when he noticed a change in the pace of beeps coming from Sherlock's heart monitor. They had become a little faster and the pale man moaned quietly, a faint tremble running through his body.

John tried to get rid of the electrodes of his own controlling devices. Due to the slight tremor in his hands and the splitting headache, he had to fumble a bit to wiggle out of the cables. When John had disconnected the first cable, his heart monitor set off the alarm at once, alerting Dr Smith and the nurse, who, only seconds later, hurried into the room, grasping the situation instantly.

"Dr Watson, you have a bell-push to call us! You can't just rid yourself of the medical equipment without our permission! You are a medical man yourself, you _should_ know better! You _have_ already been put in the same room as Mr Holmes, so that you wouldn't go wandering off, so, please…!" Dr Smith ranted.

John raised his hands apologetically.

"I'm fine! I really just wanted to check on him. I think he will wake up soon."

"If that is the case that's good news, indeed, but you _are_ to call us! Remember, you are off duty at the moment and have no authority here!"

"Yes, ok," John replied, pretending to be remorseful, "but can you help me then?"

"I will examine you first, and then we'll decide."

John gave in and endured the examination. With a pen-flashlight Dr Smith checked the reaction of his pupils, which made John flinch. They were still dilated, a side-effect of the atropine; his other reflexes were a bit lame, but not to an alarming extent. After having checked on the data the monitors had registered, the doctor nodded approvingly.

"I think you can be freed of the heart monitor, but the IV cannula has to stay in place and you still need the drip."

"Good. Fine," John said. He was aware that he was being administered a couple of necessary fluids through the IV, like painkillers (how bad would the headache be without them?!), electrolytes and possibly also Diazepam, which would prevent the severe depression that was likely to occur after Tabun poisoning. In the very back of his mind John wondered if Sherlock was also being given Diazepam since this would be quite risky, taking his history of drug abuse into account. He pushed the thought away, feeling that this would definitely be something Mycroft would have alerted the medical team to. After all, that's why they were here and not in a regular hospital.

The nurse disentangled the cables and helped John into a hospital gown, for which he thanked her with the nicest smile his face was capable of producing. The woman wasn't notably attractive and not really John's cup of tea, but the doctor considered it to be possibly useful to have her on his side. He was slightly embarrassed by his intentional manipulation of people – that was so Sherlock-like, not John-like.

John swung his legs out of the bed and was just about to get up when he started feeling extremely dizzy, swaying slightly.

"Overestimated our recovery a bit, have we, Dr Watson?" the nurse teased.

John grumbled an unintelligible reply, but let the nurse support him. He blinked and checked if the room was still spinning. He was ready to give it another try, and this time it went better.

The nurse handed a dressing gown to John that had been resting on a chair close to his bed. John put it on and, under the scrutinizing eyes of Dr Smith and with the nurse's help, made shaky steps towards Sherlock's bed.

After helping John into a seat and placing the drip stand next to him, the nurse and Dr Smith left the room, once again reminding the patient of his duty to inform them of any changes to Sherlock's or his own condition. John knew that both of them were still at risk of some very unpleasant after-effects of the Tabun poisoning.

John's heart turned over at his first proper view of Sherlock's condition. The Consulting Detective was very still on his bed, his breathing still supported by the tracheal intubation, and the skin of his bare thorax almost as white as the electrode pads of the heart monitor.

The only sounds in the room were the regularly interrupting hisses of the respirator and the beeping of the heart monitor.

John lifted his free hand and tentatively lowered it over his friend's face. He touched Sherlock's cheek and forehead cautiously; a checking and comforting gesture that John had made hundreds of times on his patients. However, on Sherlock it felt very peculiar. This was his friend. (Oh, if anybody saw –people _would_ talk!) And yet, it was only meant to reach into Sherlock's unconscious state and let him know that someone was caring for him.

Sherlock shifted slightly, causing John's heartbeat to speed up in anticipation. If Sherlock woke up, they would be able to find out if he had survived without suffering any damage to his extraordinary brain. The Consulting Detective's eyelids fluttered open and immediately closed again. Due to his own experience John knew the reason for this reaction: Sherlock's headache had to be even more terrible than his own. Finally, Sherlock managed to open his eyes and after a few clearing blinks, seemingly disoriented, he set his gaze on John. He closed his lips around the catheter, obviously attempting to speak, but the tube in his windpipe prevented this.

"Shush…, the intubation has to be removed first," John told the man on the bed comfortingly.

Although John felt he could generally do that as well, he didn't want to upset the medical staff and he also had to admit to himself that he didn't trust his own abilities at the moment. Hence, he pressed the bell-button and, almost instantly, the doctor and his nurse entered. Most probably they had been detailed to taking care of just these two patients by the personified British Government himself.

"He's awake and needs the tube removed," John explained.

"Very well, but let's first check how he's doing."

Dr Smith examined Sherlock thoroughly, finally nodding his approval. In a very calm way he instructed his patient what to do to help them remove the breathing aid. Sherlock was unusually obedient and so it only took a moment until his airway was free again. He started coughing and flinched. John wondered how much pain Sherlock had to be in. The increasing speed of the heart monitor beeps gave proof to John's assumption that Sherlock was suffering a lot.

Dr Smith went to one of the IV bags and opened it slightly more, the droplets falling into the drip chamber more quickly.

"How are you doing, mate?" John gave Sherlock a genuine smile, an expression of his relief.

"Fine," was his hoarse and rather weak reply, his eyes still shut, "…thirsty!" John knew that "fine" had been a whopping lie, however, it meant that Sherlock was all himself.

The nurse was about to bring a feeding cup of water up to Sherlock's mouth, but John took it from her hands and did it himself. Sherlock took a small sip, then whispered, "Humiliating!"

John smirked. "It's all fine. Just wait till you're 85, you'll be used to it by then."

John threw a glance at the nurse and nodded once to give her to understand that they would be fine without them. She herself looked at Dr Smith questioningly and when the man signalled that it was alright, the two left.

Sherlock looked at John, then closed his eyes.

"What happened?" Sherlock rasped with a strained look on his face.

"To cut a long story short, we've just had World War II in our kitchen and have narrowly escaped a nerve gas attack."

Sherlock's eyes shot open, which he regretted instantly, flinching and blinking.

"Ooh…," was his only verbal reaction.

Once again he fought to keep his eyes open and raised his head a little, first looking himself up and down, and then John.

"Ex…plain!" he briefly ordered, the effort it took him clearly visible in his voice and facial expression.

John gave a more or less detailed report on the facts, avoiding telling Sherlock about his two cardiac arrests and his own participation in bringing him back to life.

"Sherlock, how could that damn petri-dish have got into our kitchen?!"

Once again the Consulting Detective uttered a meagre "Oh!", however, this time it didn't sound surprised. Instead there was a slight undertone of annoyance, as much as his voice was capable of producing different tones at all.

"That bloody errand boy," Sherlock hissed between gritted teeth, "I _knew_ something was wrong with him!"


	8. Chapter 8

Ok, guys; originally, this was intended to be the last chapter. If you want, you might read it as such. However, there are still many open questions and I have started writing the story behind the sick!part. Of course, Sherlock and John will not just recover and go on as usual, so sick! bits will be in the follow-up as well. I am not sure, if there will be a different name for it or if I just post it under this story's name. I hope I will be able to publish the next bit by next week.

So far, I am overwhelmed by the reviews and PMs I got! You are so nice there outside in the far, far world!

I am so glad that librarianmum encouraged me to give writing in English a try. Never before did I look up so many words in a dictionary just to make sure I use them correctly. THANK YOU!

Love you all!

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Chapter 8

"Errand boy? What errand boy?"

With some effort Sherlock managed to explain.

"I had some of the petri-dishes sent to Barts to have them incubated there – it's not possible to keep an even temperature in other than an incubator. They were due that day and had been delivered by an errand boy."

"Errand boy," John mused, "What did he look like?" He had a vague feeling that he had to have met the guy, since Sherlock's exposure to the Tabun couldn't have been long before he had got home. Suddenly things shifted into place in John's mind. Sherlock's meticulous description resembled the man that John had had the unpleasant encounter with on his way home from Tesco's.

"Errand boy! So, that git _did_ tackle me deliberately!"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock requested, his voice, despite its hoarseness, sounding even more annoyed. Apparently, he didn't like that he couldn't deduce what John had seen.

John explained the little incident with the spilt milk.

"That was right around the corner of 221b. I _did_ have a feeling that the guy hadn't just accidentally bumped into me. He had to keep me away from you for long enough to make sure that you would be sufficiently exposed to the nerve agent!"

"You deduce…", Sherlock added his acknowledgement.

"Huh?" John was baffled. "Er, yes. Yes, I deduce." He smirked and looked down at his hands. Was that a compliment?

"John."

The doctor looked up, amazed by the seriousness in Sherlock's voice.

"You haven't told me everything."

"What do you mean?"

John felt his cheeks blush slightly, sensing that they were entering uncomfortable terrain.

"Look at me. If I have been poisoned with Tabun, there will have been reactions in my body to it other than just passing out, as you have told me."

The doctor sighed. Apparently, Sherlock had really been out of his mind by the time John had come back from the shopping. Seemingly, he didn't recall anything about the incident anymore.

"What do you remember?" John asked, examining Sherlock's face for any signs of recollection.

"Hmm…, more or less nothing." Sherlock gave John an intense look. "How serious, John?"

The doctor sighed.

"Very."

Sherlock nodded slightly and involuntarily groaned due to the pain that the movement caused him.

"You resuscitated me," he stated.

John looked down at his hands again, feeling a little embarrassed. He hadn't intended to tell Sherlock anything about this part.

"Yup, but…"

"How often?" Sherlock interrupted him.

John raised his eyes, now looking right into his flatmate's face.

"How do you know it was more than once?"

"My ribcage hurts like hell, most likely, some ribs are broken. So, either it took very long, which I don't think, going by your current fitness, or you pumped on me like crazy, _or…_ it was more than once."

Oh, Sherlock was already being very Sherlock-like, John thought, somehow relieved and irritated at the same time.

"All three, I reckon," he said, "As to my fitness, … eh, forget it…" John's voice trailed off, he wasn't in the mood and the physical state to argue with his flatmate about his lacking fitness.

The two men looked at each other and burst out laughing, which caused both Sherlock and John flashes of pain. Sherlock was exhausted, groaning slightly and closing his eyes again; John wasn't sure if he himself wouldn't slip off his chair feeling his view narrowed by black margins that clearly hinted on a not so distant faint. He tried to collect himself.

"So, how often?" Sherlock demanded.

"Once all by myself and another one that you definitely wouldn't have survived, if Mycroft's men hadn't arrived just in time."

Sherlock was quiet.

"I can't remember the last bit, though, 'cause I myself had blacked out by then."

"Yes, you got a dose, too. That's why we're both here."

"You deduce...," John stated, causing Sherlock to snort, avoiding another painful laugh.

Despite the effort it took him, Sherlock lifted his hand and stretched it out to John. The doctor hesitated, but took the hand in his own, feeling Sherlock's grip. His flatmate's eyelids opened again and he locked eyes with John.

"Thank you," he whispered, and pressed his friend's hand as firmly as his weak state allowed.

John went all goose-pimply, convinced that for the first time Sherlock genuinely meant it.

"Anytime, Sherlock, anytime."

The last twenty-four hours, as horrible as they had been, had revealed something that John wouldn't have expected to happen in his entire life: The Holmes brothers had verbally expressed an emotion John would never have imagined them capable of – gratefulness.

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BTW: No, this will NOT be slash, just FRIENDSHIP!


	9. Chapter 9

If you're interested in where the poisoned petri-dish came from and how the boys are doing, read the follow-up to this story: Dangerous Mould Part II!


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